University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

Let nobody imagine that a sense of shame implies remorse
or repentance. Nay, let them not be sure that it
implies any thing like forbearance in the progress of
offence. It was not so with our attorney-general. The
moment he recovered, in any fair degree, his composure,
he despatched a messenger for his friend Barnabas. He,
good fellow, came at the first summons. We will not say
that his footsteps were not absolutely quickened by the recollection
that it was just then the dinner hour; and, possibly,
some fancy took possession of his mind, leading
him to the strange, but pleasant notion, that Sharpe had
suddenly stumbled upon some bonne bouche in the market-place,
of particular excellence, of which he was very
anxious that his friend should partake. The supper, be it
remarked, was no less an obligation still! Conceptive
Mr. Barnabas! Certainly, he had some such idea. The
bonne bouche quickened his movements. He came seasonably.
The dinner was not consumed; perhaps not quite
ready;—but, for the bonne bouche,—alas! Sic transit
gloria mundi. Such is the inscription, at least, upon this
one pleasant hope of our friendly philosopher. There
was a morsel for his digestion, or rather for that of his
friendly entertainer, but, unhappily, it was one that neither
was well prepared to swallow. Mr. Barnabas was struck
dumb by the intelligence which he heard. He was not
surprised that Beauchampe had sent a challenge; his surprise,

amounting to utter consternation, was that his friend
should have refused it. He was so accustomed to the
usual bold carriage of Colonel Sharpe—knew so well his
ordinary promptness—nay, had seen his readiness on former
occasions to do battle, right or wrong, with word or
weapon,—that he was taken all aback with wonder at a
change so sudden and unexpected. Besides, it must be
recollected, that Mr. Barnabas was brought up in that
school of an earlier period, throughout the whole range of
southern and western country, which rendered it the point
of honour to yield redress at the first summons, and in
whatever form the summoner pleased to require. That
school was still one of authority, not merely with Mr. Barnabas,
but with the country, and the loss of caste was one
of those terrible social consequences of any rejection of
this authority, which he had not the courage to consider
without absolute horror. When he did speak, the friends
had changed places. They no longer stood in the old relation
to each other. Instead of Colonel Sharpe's being the
superior will, while that of Barnabas was submission, the
latter grew suddenly strong, almost commanding.

“But, Sharpe, you must meet him. By Jupiter! it
won't do. You're disgraced for ever, if you don't. You
can't escape. You must fight him.”

“I cannot, Barnabas! I was never so unnerved in my
life before. I cannot meet him. I cannot lift weapon
against the husband of Margaret Cooper.”

“Be it so; but, at all events, receive his fire.”

“Even for this I am unprepared. I tell you, Barnabas,
I never felt so like a cur in all my life. I never knew till
now what it was to fear.”

“Shake it off. It's only a passing feeling. When
you're up, and facing him, you will cease to feel so.”

The other shook his head with an expression of utter
despair and self-abandonment.

“By God, I know better!” exclaimed Barnabas, warmly,
—“I've seen you on the ground—I've seen you fight.
There was that chap, Calvert.”

“Barnabas,—it is in vain that you expostulate. I have
fought—have been in frequent strifes with men, and brave
men, too; but never knew such feelings as oppress me now
and have oppressed me ever since I had this message. Do
not suppose me insensible to the shame. It burns in my

brain with agony—it rives my bosom with a choking and
continual spasm. An hundred times since Covington has
been gone, have I started up with the view to sending him
a message, declaring myself ready to meet his friend, but
as often has this accursed feeling come upon me, paralyzing
the momentary courage, and depriving me of all power
of action. I feel that I cannot meet Beauchampe;—I feel
that I dare not.”

“Great God, what are we to do? Think, my dear fellow,
what is due to your station—to your position in the
party? Remember, you are just now made attorney-general—you
are the observed of all observers. Every thing
depends upon what exhibition you make now. Get over
this difficulty—man yourself for this meeting and the rest
is easy. Another year puts you at the very head of the
party.”

“I have thought of all these things, Barnabas; and one
poor month ago, had an angel of heaven come and assured
me that they would have failed to provoke me to
the encounter with any foe, however terrible, I should
have flouted the idle tidings. Now, I cannot.”

“You must! What will they say at the club? You'll be
expelled, Sharpe,—think of that! You'll be cut by every
member. Covington will post you. Nay, ten to one, but
Beauchampe will undertake to horsewhip you.”

“I trust I shall find courage to face him then, Barnabas,
though I could not now. Look you, Barnabas,—something
can be done in another way. Beauchampe can be
acted on.”

“How—how can that be done?”

“Two or three judicious fellows can manage it. It is
only to show him that any prosecution of this affair necessarily
leads to the public disgrace of his wife. It is easy
to show him, that, though he may succeed in dishonouring
me, the very act that does it, is a public advertisement
of her shame.”

“So it is,” said the other.

“Something more, Barnabas. It might be intimated to
Convington, that, as Margaret Cooper had a child—”

“Did she, indeed?”

“So I ascertained by accident. She had one before
leaving Charlemont.”

“Indeed!—well?”

“Well,—it might have the effect of making him quiet
to show him that this child was—”

The rest of the sentence was whispered in the ears of
his companion.

“The d—l it was!”—exclaimed the other. “But is
that certain, Sharpe?—for if so it acquits you altogether.
The colour alone would be conclusive.”

“Certainly it would. Now, some hint of this kind to
Covington, or to Beauchampe, himself.”

“By Jupiter! I shouldn't like to be the man to tell him,
however. He's such a bull-dog.”

“Through his friend, then. It might be done, Barnabas;
and it can't be doubted that the dread of such a report
would effectually discourage him from any prosecution of
this business.”

“So it might—so it would,—but—”

“Barnabas,—you must get it done.”

“But, my dear colonel—”

“You must save me, Barnabas—relieve me of this difficulty.
You know my power—my political power—you
see my strength. I can serve you,—you cannot doubt my
willingness to serve you: but if this power is lost—if I
am disgraced by this fellow, we are all lost.”

“True,—very true. It must be done. I will see to it.
Make yourself easy. I will set about it as soon as dinner's
over.”

Here the politic Mr. Barnabas looked round with an
anxious questioning of the eye, which Colonel Sharpe
understood.

“Ah! dinner—I had not thought of that, but it must be
ready. Of course you will stay and dine with me.”

“Why, yes—though I have some famous mutton-chops
awaiting me at home.”

“Mine are doubtlessly as good.”—

We shall leave the friends to their pottage, without any
unnecessary inquiry into the degree of appetite which they
severally brought to its discussion. It may not be impertinent
however to intimate, as a mere probability, that
Mr. Barnabas, in the discussion of the affair, was the most
able analyst of the two. The digestion of Colonel Sharpe
was, at this period, none of the best. We have said as
much before.

For that matter, neither was Beauchampe's. The return

of Convington, with the wholly unexpected refusal of
Colonel Sharpe to meet and give him redress, utterly confounded
him. Of course he had the usual remedies. There
was the poster,—which may be termed a modern letter of
credit—a sort of certificate of character, in one sense—
carrying with it some such moral odour, as in the physical
world, is communicated by the whizzing of a pullet's egg,
addled in June, directed at the lantern visage of a long
man, honoured with a high place in the public eye, though
scarcely at ease (because of his modesty) in the precious
circumference of the pillory. Beauchampe's friend was
bound to post Colonel Sharpe—Beauchampe himself had
the privilege of obliterating his shame, by making certain
cancelli on the back of the wrong-doer, with the skin of a
larger but less respectable animal. But were these remedies
to satisfy Beauchampe? The cowskin might draw
blood from the back of his enemy; but was this the blood
which he had sworn to draw? His oath! his oath! That
was the difficulty! The refusal of Colonel Sharpe to meet
him in personal combat, left his oath unobliterated—uncomplied
with. The young man was bewildered by his
rage and disappointment. This was an unanticipated dilemma.

“What is to be done, Covington?”

“Post him, at the court-house, jail, and every hotel in
town.”

“Post him, and what's the good of that?”

“You disgrace him for ever!”

“That will not answer—that is nothing!”

“You can go farther. Horsewhip him—cowskin him
—cut his back to ribands, whenever you meet him in the
open thoroughfare!”

“Did you tell him that I would do so?”

“I did!”

“It did not move him? What said he then?”

“Still the same! He would not fight you—could not
lift weapon against your life.”

“The villain!—the black-hearted, base, miserable villain!
Convington, you will go with me?”

“Surely! You mean to post him,—or cowhide him,
or both?”

“No, no! That's not what I mean. I must have his
blood—his life!”

“That's quite another matter, Beauchampe. I do not see
that you can do more than I have told you. He is a coward
—you must proclaim him as such. Your poster does that.
He is a villain—has wronged you. You will punish him
for the wrong. Your horsewhip does that! You can do
no more, Beauchampe.”

“Ay, but I must, Covington. Your poster is nothing,
and the whip is nothing. I am sworn to take his life or
lose my own!”

“I can do no more than I have told you. I will back
you to this extent—no farther.”

“I can force him to fight me,” said Beauchampe.

“In what way?”

“By assaulting him with my weapon, after offering him
another.”

“How, if he refuses to receive it?”

“He cannot—surely—he will not refuse.”

“He will! I tell you, he will refuse. The man is
utterly frightened. I never witnessed such unequivocal
signs of cowardice in any man.”

“Then is he wonderfully changed.”

A servant entered at this moment, and handed Beauchampe
a letter. It was from his wife. Its contents were
brief.

—“I do not hear from you, Beauchampe—I do not see
you. You were to have returned yesterday. Come to
me. Let me see you once more. I tremble for your
safety.”—

The traces of an agony which the words did not express
were clearly shown in the irregular, sharp lines of the
epistle.

“I will go to her at once. I will meet you to-morrow,
Covington, when we will discuss this matter farther.”

“The sooner you take the steps I propose, the better,”
said Covington. “The delay of a day to post him, is,
perhaps, nothing; but you must not permit the lapse of
more.”

“I shall not post him, Covington—that would seem to
mock my vengeance and to preclude it. No, no! posting
will not do. The scourging may; but even that does not

satisfy me now. To-morrow—we shall meet to-morrow.”

Let us go with the husband and rejoin Mrs. Beauchampe.
A week had wrought great changes in her appearance.
Her eyes have sunken, and the glazed intensity of their
stare is almost that of madness. Her voice is low,—subdued
almost to a whisper.

“It is not done!” she said, her lip touching his ear—
her hands clasping his convulsively.

“No! the miserable wretch refuses to fight with me.”

She recoiled as she exclaimed,—

“And did you expect that he would? Did you look for
manhood or manly courage at his hands?”

“Ay, but he shall meet me!” exclaimed Beauchampe,
who perceived, in this short sentence, the true character of
the duty which lay before him. “I will find him, at
least, and you shall be avenged! He shall not escape me
longer. His blood or mine.”

“Stay! go not, Beauchampe! Risk nothing. Let me
be the victim still. Your life is precious to me—more
precious than my own name. Why should you forfeit
station, pride, peace, safety,—every thing for me? Leave
me, dear Beauchampe—leave me to my shame—leave me
to despair!”

“Never! never! You are my life. Losing you I lose
more than life—all that can make it precious! I will not
lose you. Whatever happens, you are mine to the
last.”

“To the last, Beauchampe—thine,—only thine—to the
last—the last—the last!”

She sunk into his arms. He pressed his lips upon hers,
and drawing the dirk from his bosom, he elevated it above
her head, while he mentally renewed his oath of retribution.
This done, he released her from his grasp, placed
her in a seat, and, once more, pressing his lips to hers, he
darted from the dwelling. In a few seconds more the
sound of his horse's feet were heard, and she started from
her seat, and from the stupor which seemed to possess
her faculties. She hurried to the window. He had disappeared.

“He is gone!” she exclaimed, pressing her hand upon
her forehead, “He is gone! gone for what!—Ha!—I

have sent him. I have sent him on this bloody work.
Oh! surely it is madness that moves me thus! It must
be madness. Why should he murder Alfred Stevens?
What good will come of it? What safety?—What!—
But why should he not? Are we never to be free? Is he
to thrust himself into our homes for ever—to baffle our
hopes—destroy our peace—point his exulting finger to the
hills of Charlemont, and cry aloud,—`remember—there?'
No!—better he should die, and we should all die! Strike
him, Beauchampe! Strike and fear nothing! Strike
deep! Strike to the very heart,—strike! strike! strike!”

Why should we look longer on this mournful spectacle.
Yet the world will not willingly account this madness. It
matters not greatly by what name you call a passion which
has broken bounds, and disdains the right angles of convention.
Let us leave the wife for the husband.